


Get Out of Here, Go, Go

by slipintothewater (secondstar)



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Angst, Depression, Gen, Post Season 2
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-15
Updated: 2012-12-15
Packaged: 2017-11-21 04:11:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,986
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/593312
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/secondstar/pseuds/slipintothewater
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Nobody came for him, not even his best friend.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Get Out of Here, Go, Go

**Author's Note:**

  * For [bella](https://archiveofourown.org/users/bella/gifts).



The problem with friendship is sometimes you can physically feel it changing. It aches, watching as someone you were once close with drift away from you. 

Stiles felt the shift in Scott happening gradually. Stiles wondered if Scott felt it at all, but judging by the smile on his face every time Isaac was around, Stiles guessed that he didn’t feel the constant pull of his heart. 

Stiles understood, he did, because Scott found kinship in Isaac. They had been through the same changes, they were the same, and Stiles wasn’t. Stiles hadn’t changed, he was still human. He was fragile. 

So fragile, brittle bone and muscle and yet no one had come for him when he was taken. No one had saved him. He had been a message, sure. The message had been sent, but had it really been received? Stiles wasn’t so sure. Battered and bruised, Scott barely even registered Stiles’ wounds when he saw them. It turned Stiles’ stomach because he wasn’t like Scott or Isaac. He didn’t heal in minutes. It hurt, not only physically, but mentally. It hurt that he was brushed aside and not even thought about. 

It was summer, so Scott was busy with Dr. Deaton. He spent most of his time with Isaac, which Stiles was invited to hang out with them, but he just didn’t have it in him. Stiles didn’t sleep. He couldn’t bring himself to do it. He didn’t do much of anything else, either. 

His life wasn’t his own anymore. Werewolves, mountain ash, hunters, kidnapping... Deaton was wrong. He wasn’t a spark. He was a teenager with ADHD who had been having panic attacks so often that it felt like he was drowning. He hid them, though, because no one wanted a human in their pack who couldn’t handle seeing multiple people being killed. Nothing like being paralyzed then watch a car fall onto someone, killing them. Not to mention being held at gunpoint by a fellow student, who Stiles had pointed out as evil multiple times. 

No one had listened to him, though. 

He was just background noise. Collateral. He was weak, fragile, and scared. 

Stiles collapsed in on himself, pulling his knees up to his chest as he lay in his bed with his eyes closed, the lights off and windows locked shut. His phone was off, there was no music playing, no electronics on. 

Silence engulfed him. 

He concentrated on the rise and fall of his chest, on the feel of his dried, cracked lips. He ran his thumb over the soft fabric of his pajama pants, the feel of his face against the pillow, his body heat radiating off of him, making him feel a false sense of security. In his room there were no werewolves, no kanimas, no father spiraling into alcoholism, no job loss because of him, no unrequited love, no kidnapping, no pain. 

There was nothing. 

Nothing until the soft knock on his door. The Sheriff’s voice rang out, bringing Stiles out of his stupor, yet remaining unmoving. 

“Stiles, son, you haven’t left your room since yesterday.” Stiles pursed his lips together, breathing in and out, in and out. His dad sat at the edge of his bed, his hand pressing against Stiles’ forehead, checking him for a fever. “You need to eat, and being in the dark this long-”

“Not hungry,” Stiles answered, his throat dry, mouth parched. He licked his lips, moving a hand to wipe at his mouth slowly, then returning it to his chest where it was curled against him comfortably. The Sheriff sighed angrily. 

“Stiles, do I need to call someone? You need to talk to me here.”

“I don’t even know where to start,” Stiles admitted, his eyes closing. He was so tired, so weighed down by lies and nightmares. 

“Do you want to talk to someone?” The Sheriff asked. Stiles shook his head, rolling onto his back, his hand resting on his stomach, halfway under his shirt, his fingers strumming lightly across his skin.

“No.”

“Where is Scott?” Stiles scoffed, his eyes closing once more, his nose scrunching up, a frown appearing. 

“Is something going on between you two?” 

Stiles shrugged noncommittally. 

Stiles wasn’t sure about the time lapse when he opened his eyes. He had long since unplugged his alarm clock, its red numbers offending him every time he turned over to see it glaring at him angrily. His stomach rumbled, unhappy at how he had been ignoring it. Stiles slid out of bed, thinking momentarily about falling back into the warm, inviting blankets. 

His first stop was the bathroom, the second was the kitchen. 

When he walked back into his room, he didn’t even react when he saw someone sitting in his desk chair. Stiles crawled back into bed, laying down so his back was facing him. 

“What are you doing?” Derek asked in a long suffering sigh. Stiles didn’t respond. It didn’t matter what he was doing, because he was just collateral. Something to be beaten, paralyzed, used. He didn’t want to be the punching bag anymore. Derek exhaled with intent, obviously impatient. 

“What are _you_ doing?” Stiles mumbled mostly into his pillow, because egging on an alpha with a short fuse was the best decision to make. 

“Your phone has been off.”

“Yep,” Stiles said, popping the ‘p’. “No one called it anyways.”

“You know that’s a lie,” Derek chided, “Scott has been worried.”

“Scott, who hasn’t stopped by.”

“How do you know that? He has, actually. Your dad said you hadn’t left your room in days.” 

Stiles stayed silent as he thought about how maybe Scott had taken the time to come visit him, but pushed the notion out of his mind because it didn’t matter, really. It didn’t change anything. 

“Why are you here?” Stiles asked, shifting in his bed so that he was laying on his stomach, his hands tucked up against his chest, his face turned towards Derek. “How did you get in, I locked the window.” 

“The front door.” 

“Ah, plot twist,” Stiles mumbled, closing his eyes. Stiles didn’t open his eyes until he felt the bed dip down. Derek was sitting on the edge of the bed. When he caught a glimpse of Derek, his breath caught in his throat. 

“I’m here because like Scott... I’m worried.” Stiles snorted, his shoulders moving slightly as he laughed to himself. 

“Don’t worry, I’m here. Not kidnapped, alive and well.” 

“You don’t look well.”

“Well, fuck,” Stiles said with a little too much vehemence. He sighed in frustration, because Derek was looking at him with his brow furrowed, like he was about to put a hand on his back, which Stiles did not want. He didn’t want pity. He wanted to be left alone. 

“How is your cheek?” 

“My what?” Stiles asked, pushing himself up by his elbows. 

“Your cheek, from when Gerard hit you.” Stiles brushed his fingers across his cheek, not feeling any pain. He felt his body flush, though, at the fact that Derek remembered he had been hurt and that he asked about it. 

“Better, now. Not all of us have super healing powers of doom.” Derek’s mouth twitched, as if he fought of a smile. Stiles flipped onto his back, then scooted up so he was sitting against his headboard, shoving his pillow out of the way. He put his hands in his lap sitting cross legged, picking at his cuticles. 

Derek was silent, which Stiles was uncomfortable with. Stiles scratched absentmindedly at the nape of his neck, clearing his throat. 

“Showering always made me feel better,” Derek offered. Stiles looked up at him through heavy lidded eyes. “Scrubbing away, sitting under the spray of the shower, it helped.” 

“You’re just saying that because I haven’t showered in three days and you think I smell,” Stiles mumbled, tight-lipped, picking at a fuzzball on his sheets. 

“That too,” Derek joked. Stiles leaned over, falling face first back onto his bed. “Come on, Stiles. You’ll feel-”

“I’m sorry, I’ll feel what? Better? I’ll feel necessary, and wanted? How about essential. No, Derek. I’ll just feel clean and wet. Not appealing right now,” Stiles mouthed off as he grabbed at his sheets, pulling them up over his head. “Go away.” 

Stiles woke up again later to find his room empty. 

It felt suffocating. 

Stiles turned on his phone just to see what time it was. He was not expecting the onslaught of texts and voicemails once it booted up. Most were Scott, who apparently hadn’t stopped sending him texts. There were some from Lydia, too. Stiles’ heart thudded in his chest as he shoved his phone under his pillow, burying his head against it, then screamed. 

“Stiles,” a voice called out sometime later, after Stiles had calmed down, after he had beat his fists against his mattress and cried. It had been the first time he cried since he shut himself away. He felt tired, exhausted even. He decided not to answer whoever it was, because his head was hidden beneath blankets and he was warm and he currently felt nothing. And nothing was a step above feeling everything, or so he felt. He was so tired of _feeling_. “Stiles,” the voice said again, this time closer. It was his dad. “You have a visitor.”

“Who?” Stiles croaked, his voice almost nonexistent. 

“Derek Hale,” The Sheriff said, restraint showing in his voice, worry. 

“Did he come to the door?” Stiles asked, rolling over, exposing his head and part of his torso. 

“Does he.. not usually?” The Sheriff asked. Stiles didn’t answer him. So many lies, so many of them. The Sheriff sighed, then walked out of the room, letting Derek in. 

Derek had food with him, and orange juice. Stiles sat up, taking the offering of juice. It was gone in seconds. 

“I see you showered,” Derek mused as he sat down in the desk chair, scooting it by the bed, closer to Stiles. Stiles shrugged. “And changed into different pajamas.”

“Don’t discount the fact that I brushed my teeth,” Stiles chirped as he put the plate with a sandwich that Derek had brought in on his lap. He took a bite, humming in semi-contentment. 

“If I had a sticker I would give it to you,” Derek deadpanned. Stiles smiled, the corner of his mouth lifting a little bit, but that was it. That was all Derek was getting.

“If I ever got a sticker from you I don’t know what I’d do,” Stiles muttered, taking another bite of his sandwich. 

When he finished it, he crawled back down into his bed, but didn’t close his eyes. 

“I am tired of silence,” Stiles admitted to Derek, who was still seated in his desk chair. Derek nodded, adding nothing to the conversation. “Everything hurts,” he whispered. Derek stayed until Stiles fell asleep again. 

Stiles woke up to the voices of his dad and Derek talking downstairs. They had the TV on, and a game by the sound of it. Stiles blinked, unaware of the time of day. He grabbed his phone, rubbing his eyes as he made his way downstairs. 

He was right, his dad had a football game on and Derek was watching it with him. Both of them looked up at him, surprised to see him out of bed. Stiles felt like an exhibit in a zoo. His brow furrowing, he joined Derek on the couch, pulling on the blanket that was draped across the back of it. He wrapped it around himself, saying nothing, as he curled himself up on the couch. He fell asleep sometime in the second half, despite his father’s commentary. 

When he woke up again, he was in his bed, tucked in snuggly. Stiles shoved his sheets off, heading to the bathroom. When he turned on the light he couldn’t help but smile when he saw a sticker with a smiley face on his shirt.

**Author's Note:**

> Just take a second and think about Derek going to the store and picking out stickers. Just saying.
> 
> this was written for Bella, for donating to my theatre for it to stay open! Thank you, Bella!


End file.
